Winter-Spring:
Have you seen steam escape the river?
With spring’s entrance, I wait with bated breath.
The return of blush to Gaia’s face; to winter, death.
A nimble breeze provokes quivering leaves.
I remark the sheen of dew atop the river’s edge,
A remediated view refreshed without a winter’s stagnation.
The stream revitalized with a glow of anticipation.
The ice recedes from the bank and my view.
Have you seen steam escape the river?
A cold dawn’s ray dances across my view;
With a lark, figuring upon the sky in glorious debut,
Comes spring; To Earth, to my window, to me.
Summer – Autumn:
The golden evening light seems to wane and wax like a tide as sudden, long rays cut through a late summer’s boredom. But it’s only the movement of the trees in the wind and the changing leaves. Outside the window from where it shines stretches a gilded-viridescence, a canopy like I saw from a Cascade Mountain’s evening, long ago and yet only a few months past. The mountain was, like here, sweltering by day and numbing by night. Already the wind, as on that evening, adopts a detached chill.
But the sunlight is still warm and these golden scenes salve a soul dispirited after a weary, changeless day. I hope I see more of these days before the winds are harsher and the leaves wither and autumn shows a changing world when everything here is still the same.
Days and weeks and whole months fade from memory, but moments, whole worlds, and eras apart remain in view. To feel the wind and see the stars on an unending summer night, to lie in anticipation of an early morning’s charge. To reminisce over fleeting moments lost to retrospect, to disavow the constraints of time. To live a thousand lives, all mine now and yet already lost, already forgotten, whose shape time distorts and deforms. The face in the window is never quite mine; sometimes I see myself more truly in a photo or recollection, than in a window’s ephemeral reflection.
